


Hit Reset

by pinstripedJackalope



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Brain Damage, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Headcanon, Healing, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Seizures, Temporary Character Death, Whump, it's like lowkey whump, it's like.... bending canon a bit, well okay sort of canon compliant, well sort of whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope
Summary: Joe has learned since becoming an immortal that head injuries don't always heal all at once.  This is especially true when some bastard blows your brains out.Or: a fic about what might have happened after Nicky was shot by Keane if the old guard healed just a little differently from TBIs.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 29
Kudos: 393





	Hit Reset

**Author's Note:**

> Is this fic an excuse to whump Nicky a little? Yes. Yes it is. I hope y'all enjoy!

Generally speaking, big injuries heal the slowest. 

There’s no surprise there. That’s the same for anyone, immortal or not—a papercut will heal faster than a stab wound, that’s basic biology. Joe has known that since before his first death, before his first war, before he knew what it felt like to have his guts stitch themselves back together. 

What he didn’t know was that brain injuries also take longer to heal, though not for the same reason. 

The good news is that he’s learned all about that in the time he’s been immortal. You take a wound to the head and you stay down longer, he knows this well. Brains are strange, complex things—of course they’re going to take longer to fix than a toe or an arm. But there is one funny thing about brain injuries that doesn’t apply to big injuries, which is that they don’t always heal all at once. 

Especially when you get your brains blown out on a concrete floor.

 _Don_ _’t say it like that, don’t, just don’t_ , Joe thinks. He feels sick enough as it is, as he hovers over Nicky’s still face, kneeling in the gory mess. He’s seen Nicky die any number of ways, any number of times, and so many of them at his own hands, that he should be used to this. Should be used to gray matter under his knees, used to Nicky’s glassy eyes. But that phrase… it’s curdled in his gut like sour milk, caught under his fingernails like grave dirt. No matter what he does, how he tries to corral his thoughts, he just keeps circling back. 

_Brains blown out—brains blown out—brains blown out_ —

That bastard put a gun in Nicky’s mouth and blew his brains out. 

…He’s going to pay for that.

Not until Nicky wakes up, though. Joe swallows, his hands falling slowly to Nicky’s body, his face, but not quite daring to touch. Nicky has to be okay, first and foremost. He has to wake up, to get up, to move. Joe isn’t leaving until Nicky is able to get up and leave with him.

It takes a moment longer—one terrible, awful, _eternity_ of a moment—before Nicky starts to stir, a gurgle sounding at the back of his throat and his lips twitching before he suddenly gasps and jack-knifes off the concrete. Joe wheezes, partly because of the choking gas still enveloping the room but mostly in relief that Nicky is alive, awake and aware as he reaches for Joe and Joe reaches for him in turn.

They take a moment, just one split second, to reassure each other that they’re both alive. Then Nicky is rolling over grab a gun off the floor. “Let’s go,” he says. “Andy.”

It’s all he needs to say. Joe is up on his feet, grabbing a gun for himself, as soon as the words are out of Nicky’s mouth. He gestures Nicky to follow, urging him along with a, “Come on, come on—” as he veers for the exit, leaving behind a dark pool of blood and brains on the floor. 

They hit the hallway a moment later, Joe still in front. He’s focused on the space in front of them, making sure to take out any guards who get in their way, but as he goes he’s aware of Nicky’s footsteps following behind him. It’s hard to tell, so slight that he doubts any of the others would have noticed except perhaps Andy, but Nicky’s footsteps are just slightly… off. His gait is off-kilter, his boots hitting the ground with just a little too much force. It’s not enough to seriously impede them, not enough to convince Joe to find a hidey-hole to tuck them away in… but it is enough to let Joe know that this isn’t over. He can tell, because he can always tell when it comes to Nicky, that there is more to come. _Brains blown out_ , his mind chirps—Nicky probably won’t be completely healed for a bit yet. And when he does heal… god.

It probably won’t be pretty, but however it goes it will _pale_ in comparison to what is coming to the asshole who shot him. 

***

Breaking Keane’s neck is satisfying. Not for long, not when Nicky is still leaning a little too heavily forward and his eyes aren’t quite tracking as fast as they should, but it feels good for at least a second. Joe kneels there for a long moment, exhaling the anger, before the elevator dings and Nicky calls to him and the chase begins anew. A sprint down the stairs later and they arrive just in time to see Nile take a swan dive out of one of the penthouse windows, taking Merrick down with her. 

Nicky, as always, is quick to check on his teammate, calling out to her. Joe, however, just has eyes for Nicky—Nicky, who tries to reach for the handle of the smashed car that Nile landed in and misses. Booker has to help, gripping the handle while Nicky grips the edge of the window, the two of them managing to pull the door free just as Nile begins to stir, her body healing. Andy shows up a moment later, and the five of them are soon on their way, bundled up in a stolen car.

“That was… wild,” Nile says from the front seat.

“Your first proper adventure as a member of the old guard, I’d venture,” Nicky says, and then winces and closes his eyes as Andy speeds up, the buildings beginning to blur outside the window.

Joe leans over toward him, stroking a questioning hand down the side of Nicky’s face.

“Headache,” Nicky says under his breath, squinting one eye open. “I think it’s trying to heal.”

Joe nods, and presses a gentle kiss to his temple. When he looks past him to the other side of the back seat he finds Booker watching, those large, sad eyes locked on Nicky and him. Joe stares back, daring him to speak, to open his mouth and say a single damn thing, but Booker does not. He swallows and breaks eye contact, turning his gaze down to his hands, resting in his lap.

“That’s what I thought,” Joe says. He tries to put venom behind the words, to make Booker regret the pain he’s caused, but it just comes out tired. He can’t keep it up. His anger burns hot, furious, like red-hot coals. But embers cannot last forever—they eventually burn out. 

He wonders, sometimes, if love is like that, too. If one day he’ll wake up and his love for Nicky will have cooled, lost its ferocity and its burning passion. He hopes not, hopes that he will love Nicky until whatever end awaits them, but there’s still a fear, deep down, that he will lose Nicky and not even to death.

He doesn’t want to think like that. He doesn’t want to think of Booker’s children, turning hateful eyes on their father and spitting vitriol past weak lips. A love for their father turned to poison inside them when they learned of what he was, of his immortality. He doesn’t want to think that there might come a day when his and Nicky’s love will change or wither… but Booker betrayed them, and Andy is mortal, and it all hurts in a way that Joe can’t put a name to, this fear and anger and emptiness all mixing together inside of him. He thinks, suddenly, that Keane may have pulled the trigger but Booker is just as much at fault for what happened to Nicky today, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. He trusted Booker, and Nicky got his brains blown out.

He swallows hard, leaning into Nicky and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He just… he can’t think about this. He can’t. He can’t.

***

It takes nearly three hours, but they reach their safe house soon enough, after exchanging the car out several times. Nile takes one look at the lot of them and declares that they’re going to get cleaned up before they begin their deliberations as to Booker’s fate. Fair, considering that Nicky is still absolutely _drenched_ in his own blood, with bits of brain matter all but glued to his hair. Joe has done his best to pick them out but he hasn’t been entirely successful, least of all because it’s still making his stomach turn every time he thinks about it. The rest of them aren’t all that much better, really, but Nicky left a giant stain on the seat of the last car they rode in so. You know. Priorities.

Joe follows him into the bathroom without question, carrying with him the clothes that Andy dug up for them. “Head still healing?” he asks.

Nicky twitches, peeling his shirt off his back with a wince. “I think so,” he says, quiet. “It doesn’t hurt as much.”

Joe nods. Then he nudges Nicky toward the shower spray, pushing his head down under the warm water.

It takes a while to get them both clean in the small space, but eventually they manage. And afterward Nicky is _still_ making that face, like he can’t focus very well on anything that moves. Joe frowns, pressing his palm to the back of Nicky’s neck. He knows from experience that examining the wound won’t do any good—it’s not the outside that hasn’t caught up yet but the inside, the synapses and neurotransmitters themselves struggling to bridge the gap on a microscopic level.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Joe asks, even as they make their way to the pub on the corner to meet up with the others. “We can let you heal first.”

But Nicky shakes his head, determination etched into the lines of his face. “No. Booker made his decision, and we need to make ours. The sooner the better.”

“Alright, _habibi_.” Joe leans in to press a kiss to Nicky’s cheek. “I trust you to tell me if you need to stop.”

Nicky nods, and allows Joe to hold the door for him.

And it’s fine. It’s good. Nicky manages to stay on track through the long and arduous discussion. He’s tracking the conversation just fine, speaking his opinions succinctly and concisely, and Joe begins to think that maybe, just maybe, they’ll get through this without a major brain event.

It’s wishful thinking. Because immortal they may be, but impervious they are not. And because big wounds take longer to heal and because brain injuries are the most complex and because they can’t have anything go smooth or easy, not them, never them.

It happens during dinner, after they’ve given Booker the verdict and Booker has gone off on his own. The four of them who are left are sitting around the minuscule table in one of the hotel rooms, eagerly scarfing down chow mein, talking about anything they can think of to keep their minds occupied. Everyone except Nicky, who is picking at his food. 

He’s quiet, too quiet, and Joe knows the others have noticed. They probably think it’s because of the strain of these past few days. That’s a large part of it, Joe knows—the physical, mental, emotional exhaustion is weighing on his dear Nicky heavily. He makes a note to give Nicky a massage later. The rest of the problem is Nicky’s head, still struggling to link those last neurotransmitters. 

Joe hums, leaning in close. He’s just about to ask if Nicky wants to take their plates to bed when suddenly Nicky stands. Or tries to, at least. He’s listing dangerously to one side, unstable, his eyes unfocused.

“Yusuf, I think I need—to—” he says, the Italian dropping like glass shards from his mouth rather than the normal beautiful flow of words in his native tongue. Joe reaches urgently for him, trying to take him by the shoulder, but before he can Nicky’s eyes roll back and he goes down with a crash, taking out the table and all their food with it.

Joe curses, diving after him. He didn’t quite make it in time to shield Nicky’s head from hitting the tile floor, but he does get there in time to roll him over onto his side, cushioning his head from further damage. Nicky groans, an involuntary sound, as his muscles seem to splay out, stretching, for a split second. Then he begins to shake, his entire body spasming. 

“What’s going on?” Niles demands, crouching down on Nicky’s other side. “What is he—is he hurt? Why is he having a seizure?”

On her knees beside Joe, Andy’s lips thin into a frown so stony that it rivals the carved faces of the gargoyles on Notre Dame. “Head trauma?” she asks, though she’s not really asking. She knows the answer.

Joe nods anyway, still holding Nicky in place as he convulses. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, rocking with Nicky as he bucks. “Come on, let it heal. Let it heal and come back to me, come on, come on—”

It takes an excruciatingly long moment, but the convulsions slow… slow… slow… and then, finally, they stop. Joe leans back, stroking Nicky’s hair, just as Nicky’s body lurches and he vomits up the few bites of dinner that he got down. He gasps, a stuttered breath in and then out, eyes still closed and hands lying limp against the tile.

Joe breathes out as well, settling back on his knees as Nicky’s breath slowly grows more and more even. He doesn’t look away from Nicky because he already knows that Andy is staring at him, her eyes hard, waiting for a real answer. He swallows. “That asshole, Keane,” he says, his hand skittering across Nicky’s cheek and hair, back across the place where the bullet went through, now utterly unmarked. “Put a gun in his mouth. Blew his—his fucking—brains ou—”

He doesn’t even get the words all the way out of his mouth before Andy is seizing the back of his shirt and yanking him into a sideways hug, just as he begins to sob. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer platitudes—she just holds him, as he holds Nicky, his entire body turning itself inside out with the intensity of his cries.

“Nicky is gonna be okay, right?” Nile asks, sounding stricken. “You shot me in the head and I came right back, so he’s gonna—he’s _gonna be okay_ —?”

“He’ll be fine,” Andy says, her hand pressing against Joe’s back and scrubbing up and down brusquely. “Sometimes head injuries heal in spurts rather than all at once. This was his brain healing the last of the damage, he’ll come around in a minute.”

And he does. He comes around just as Joe is catching his breath, hiccuping from the force of his sobs. Joe almost begins to cry again as Nicky’s brilliant green eyes slide open and he coughs, one hand rising from the ground and feeling around slowly. Joe smiles a watery smile as he takes it in his own, holding tight.

“Welcome back, _habibi_ ,” he says.

Nicky swallows, his rubbery fingers squeezing Joe’s before he opens his mouth and slurs, “I think… I missed the mark.”

“What mark was that?” Joe asks, using his other hand to stroke Nicky’s hair back from his face.

“Was aiming for you when I fell but I think… I hit the table. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your dinner.”

Joe laughs, tears still in his eyes. “Love, you were healing a traumatic brain injury. Don’t beat yourself up about which direction you fell.”

Nicky grunts, still out of sorts. Then he notices Nile there, at his other side, and reaches his free hand out to her. “Help me up?” he says.

“You okay to move?” she asks, unsure.

Nicky nods. “Brain has been reset. The fog is leaving already. I’m okay.”

Joe swallows down another sob as Nile looks over at him. He nods, and the two of them work in tandem to help Nicky sit up. He still looks pained, but Joe knows it’s more about the food splattered across the floor than it is about his head hurting. Joe just shakes his head, reaching out until Nicky meets him halfway, the two of them pulling each other into a hug. 

“I’m okay,” Nicky says again, quieter this time. He rests his cheek against Joe’s shoulder. “Took longer to heal than I thought it would but I’m okay.”

“Good,” Joe says, choking the words out past the lump in his throat. He focuses on stroking Nicky’s hair, pressing kisses to the side of his head. Nicky makes a small noise as Andy and Nile get up and begin to clean up the mess on the floor, but Joe isn’t ready to let go yet so Nicky stays put, soothing Joe as Joe soothes him, for a long, long time.

Big injuries heal the slowest, generally speaking. Brain injuries don’t always heal at once. But time heals all wounds, as the saying goes, and Joe is grateful now and forever for the sheer amount of time he has had with Nicky at his side. All the years past and all the years yet to come, all the centuries, the millennia, but also every single second, every individual tick of the clock. Each and every one is precious, special, and he’s not ready to let go. He thinks he might never be ready. He _hopes_ he’ll never be ready.

That’s all he can really ask for, in a life as strange as theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers!


End file.
